


Amuse-bouche

by risotto



Category: Free!
Genre: Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risotto/pseuds/risotto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Makoto takes Rin to a fancy restaurant. Rin has other things in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amuse-bouche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarblaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarblaster/gifts).



> For **Nova** , who requested some MakoRin on tumblr.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it.

Compared to most couples, they're pretty low-key. They don't shy away from each other, even while out in public, but they don't necessarily parade around with their PDA, either. It's an even, calm ground with them, and they both like it that way. 

And while there's nothing outwardly affectionate about anything they do outside of closed doors, it's not much of a surprise when Rin drums his fingers in a lazy pattern on the small of Makoto's back just barely above the waistband of his pants. That earns a tiny gasp from the taller man—nothing loud or worthy of drawing attention to their cozy table—and Makoto eventually settles into the feel of it and tries not to get lost in the hypnotic rhythm of those fingertips as he peruses through the restaurant menu.

“Anything looking good to you, Rin?” he asks, even though it's a sure bet Rin will order the steak. He’s really only asking out of a need to distract himself from Rin's fingers. They haven’t relented and are now grazing the little dimples in his back with feather-light pressure. 

“From here? Definitely,” Rin drawls.

Makoto can't grunt derisively, not with those fingers stroking him, but he tries anyway. “I mean on the menu.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Rin props his chin on his palm and gazes down at his menu, the epitome of nonchalance if his other hand weren't, ah, preoccupied. “I can't decide between ridiculously overpriced entree number one or super pretentious entree number two.” 

Makoto nudges him in the flank with a playful elbow. “Don't be like that. It's all free you know.”

And thankfully so. The place _is_ rather expensive. A lucky win in an office raffle netted Makoto with two all-expenses-paid vouchers to the newest five-star hotel and restaurant in town. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as Rin just returned from the Pan Pacific Championships with two gold medals. Makoto couldn’t think of a better time or opportunity to celebrate.

Rin had other ideas in mind, however, Ones that didn't include snazzy suits and fancy dinners made by world-renowned chefs. “Still think we should’ve just ordered room service instead,” he grouses.

Makoto's face burns, because he knows the underlying meaning there. Room service means dismissing a young and curious bellboy’s wandering eyes as he brings in a cart full of overpriced food—food they would eventually ignore in favor of each other.

The idea sounds mighty tempting once Rin’s palm presses flat against Makoto's back and brazenly snakes it around toward the front of his pants. 

Biting back a hiss, Makoto straightens his spine and clears his throat. No, Rin's not going to pout and grope till he gets his way. Not tonight. “We didn't come out here all dressed up just to stay holed up in the room, Rin,” he says, evenly and with only a small crack in his voice, “so let's just try to make the most of it, okay?”

“Fine,” Rin snorts with a pout, but he behaves and withdraws his hand.

Self-satisfied, Makoto smiles and waves over their waiter who dutifully refills their ice waters and takes their orders. Feeling just the tiniest bit “adventurous” and because it sounds exotic yet familiar, Makoto goes with the smoked pheasant that comes with artisan greens and tricolor potatoes. 

The waiter then looks to Rin, pen and pad ready. “And for you, sir?” 

Rin hums, presumably in thought. And just when Makoto thinks he's going to order something meaty that won't interfere with his training, Rin looks up, face innocent as ever, and asks—“How is the salmon here prepared?”

—just as he swiftly undoes Makoto's button and zipper with one hand.

The waiter, too busy sticking his nose in the air, fails to notice how Makoto almost leaps out of his seat; he doesn’t hear him squeak, either. “Our chefs stuff it with roasted leeks and shiitake mushrooms and bake it with a Pinot Noir sauce. Or, they can grill it and serve it with our unique lemon mint dressing alongside seasonal vegetables.”

“Sounds delicious,” Rin says. He sounds impressed, a few octaves just shy of smug (which is more fitting, really) as happily strokes his slender fingers along the bulge in his boyfriend’s pants while ignoring the threatening looks said boyfriend’s giving him.

“It is, sir. It's one of our signature dishes.” The waiter beams with pride as if he’s the one that prepared it himself.

“In that case, I think I'll go with the salmon.” Rin somehow manages to fold up his menu and returns it to his waiter one-handed while circling the pad of his thumb over the outline of Makoto's cock with his other, easily, like he might as well be doing something else. He flashes Makoto a grin, sharp teeth glinting. “I need the protein.”

“Excellent choices, sirs. I'll get these orders out to our chef and return with your appetizers.” And with that, the waiter hurries off. 

Once he's gone and they’re alone, Makoto lets out the breath he'd been desperately holding, his shoulders slumping. “I can’t believe you,” he croaks.

Without lifting his gaze from the ice cubes melting in his glass, Rin just shrugs. “What? It's true, you know. Swimmers need more than just carbs in their diet.”

Makoto leans in. “I'm...not talking about that, Rin,” he whispers, looking down at their laps. The pristine white tablecloth is doing an excellent job in covering up Rin's mischief. Makoto's not sure if he ought to be glad it hides them from prying eyes or if he should feel thwarted because, admittedly, he loves to watch Rin work him, be it with his hands or his mouth, anything. 

This is just torture. Strategic torture. 

“I don't know what you're talking about, Makoto,” Rin says, tone angelic and devilish all at once. “I'm just enjoying a night out with you.” 

And reaching in and slowly pumping Makoto's erection. Thankfully, he leaves that part out. 

“Rin...” Makoto looks around them.

The restaurant is occupied to less than half capacity tonight and the tables are spread out so as to offer diners the illusion of privacy. The overhead lights are dim, with small table candles providing most of the interior illumination, resulting in a warm, romantic ambiance. Even so, it doesn't mean they're completely isolated.

Ignoring Makoto and any potential warnings about security cameras, Rin slips his hand up, presses into the swollen vein of Makoto's cock then chuckles to himself when Makoto gasps and goes tight like a coiled spring. “This is what you wanted, right?” he asks around a smirk.

A handy under the table wasn't quite what Makoto had in mind when he invited Rin to put on his Sunday best for a night out, but he isn't about to throw his plans out just because Rin—as usual—can't keep his hands to himself, either. 

“All right, fine.” Makoto looks around them one more time, checks to make sure the coast is clear, and then begins to buck his hips into Rin's fist. Knowing him, it'll be over and done with soon and once that happens, things can resume as usual. “You can do this.” 

There's a glint in Rin's eye. A challenge. “Oh I _can_ , can I?”

Before Makoto can think to retort or maybe even ask what the hell he meant by that, their waiter returns. 

Rin doesn't dare to stop. If anything, he picks up the pace once company arrives, using the slickness of Makoto’s precum to jerk him faster and harder. The waiter remains none the wiser and Makoto’s got to wonder if he’s just that oblivious or if he’s become so jaded to this sort of thing, he simply doesn’t care as long as he gets paid.

Either way, Makoto also makes a mental note to leave a handsome tip.

Midway through the waiter’s task of arranging plates and forks and sprinkling cheese and pepper on their salads, Rin loosens his grip until he’s barely felt, and the air rushes back into Makoto’s lungs.

Relieved, Makoto lowers further in his seat though it does nothing to ease the ache building up in his groin. Damn Rin and his hands. 

“I’m very sorry,” Rin says suddenly, holding up his salad plate toward the waiter. “I don’t know if I said so or not, but I prefer my dressing on the side.” He winces, looking apologetic, to the point where Makoto thinks he’s got a career in acting if he ever stops swimming. “Is it possible…?”

The waiter buys it. “Oh, yes, of course! I’ll fix that for you right away!”

When they're alone yet again, Rin quickly downs the rest of his water and says, “Oops, I dropped something.”

Strange. Makoto didn’t hear anything drop.

Rin lifts the hem of the tablecloth and by the time Makoto realizes his plan, it’s too late: Rin’s already crawling beneath the table and out of view, leaving Makoto alone up top, a panic-stricken and paranoid mess.

“Rin—!” Twitching, he bangs his knee up against the bottom of the table, narrowly avoiding clocking his poor boyfriend in the head. 

Rin palms his cock over the fabric of his boxers again, grip cautious and gentle this time. “Ssh.”

The pace of Rin's hand over him is slow and steady as he coaxes Makoto into splaying his thighs wide open and keeping them still. His fingers dip into the fly of his boxers—they’re silk, a gift from Nagisa upon his return from a trip to Europe. The material is cool and slithery, a contrast to the searing heat of the flesh it covers.

Rin pulls him out and Makoto tries, in vain, to turn him away, to remind him of what he’s doing and where they are, how they might end up in serious trouble if they’re caught. But Rin just presses a soft kiss against the apex of his thigh, making his entire body aware of what he’s offering…and Makoto’s helpless to refuse. Not with those red eyes going dusky and promising and looking directly into his; and certainly not with him breathing tiny, excited breaths through the flimsy silk of his boxers.

A few trickles of saliva drip out the side of Rin’s mouth and that’s about all Makoto can take. Reaching down, he grabs a handful of wine-colored hair and, tipping back Rin’s head just so, he whispers, “Just let me watch, okay?”

Rin’s tongue is cool from the ice in their drinks—Makoto discovers this when his boyfriend’s tongue skims over the swollen head of his cock and leaves his brain almost numb from pleasure. The pressure building in him contends with the constant need to stay alert and wary enough so that he might not give them away and he's left to coast that fine line between losing himself to Rin’s whims and being hyper-aware of everything going on around them. It’s unbearable.

“And here we are.”

Makoto jumps with a start. Rin doesn’t choke, thank goodness.

Oh shit. It’s their waiter, back with Rin’s salad, fresh and with dressing on the side, just as ordered. 

In this haze of pleasure and debauchery, Makoto simply _forgot_. And now that he’s there and Rin’s supposedly not, he’s left to sort this out, all on his own. Somehow, he thinks, Rin probably planned for this all along.

“Ah, he just…had to go to the bathroom,” he supplies, face cringed with nervous laughter and tiny beads of sweat as he lowers the tablecloth completely over Rin and his _canvas_ in the most stealthy way possible, given their circumstances.

Then it occurs to him the waiter didn’t even ask about his date’s absence. 

Damn it, Rin.

“Pardon me for saying so sir,” the waiter murmurs as he adjusts Rin’s plate on his supposedly empty spot, “but you look very flushed. Are you ill? Would you like for me to call you a doctor?”

Beneath the table, Rin chuckles against Makoto’s flesh, the tremors working him into a frenzy. Makoto shivers, barely able to respond beyond just a simple, “that w-won’t be necessary,” after mentally counting backwards from five.

The waiter doesn’t budge. “Are you _sure_?”

Just as Makoto opens his mouth to reply, Rin’s tongue swirls over the tip of his cock, favoring the little slit there for the few aching moments before his lips brush over the spit on his head and he takes him in, fully.

Makoto snaps his jaw shut, fending off a moan, or a curse, or both. It’s not as if he can very well kick the guy who literally has his dick in his hands (and mouth), so he clears his throat and offers the kind and dutiful waiter a smile as if to say, _no I got this, please go away before I come and embarrass us all_. “…I’m fine, really. Thank you.”

Mercifully, the waiter leaves, allowing Makoto the chance to brush aside the flap of tablecloth and directly scold his boyfriend under there without looking like a madman. “Be nice,” he rasps. 

Rin doesn’t say anything. Just flickers his tongue out to tease the underside and Makoto's surprised into a breathy, quivering reaction, almost more aroused by the _sight_ of what his boyfriend's doing than the actual feel of it. 

_Almost_. Rin knows him more than anyone else, after all.

Which is probably why he then has the gall to draw one of his balls into his mouth, knowing good and well it’s one of the most sensitive regions of Makoto’s body, and sucks firmly. It’s enough to get Makoto to stop twitching—he falls still beneath Rin’s touch, unmoving and at his mercy, breath stopping in his throat.

“Fu—” Makoto bites down till he pricks his lip. “Rin…no, _please_. I’m serious,” he warns, “I’m going to…”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the rest of that because Rin takes him into his mouth again and it's not long before everything comes to a head and pushes him over that edge of reason. His hand claws tight at the back of Rin's head and it's with a shudder and a muffled whine that he finally comes, mouthing Rin's name over and over without pause, yet not a single sound escapes him. 

Save for the obscene little _slurp_ when he licks him clean, Rin is also quiet as he swallows every spurt and every drop of Makoto without a mess, complaint or sound.

A good thing too, because in those precious few blissful moments, Makoto had forgotten—once again—that they weren't at home or even in a hotel room but rather, seated at a restaurant with several other people, none of whom noticed what just transpired.

“Ah, found it,” Rin muses as he crawls out from his hiding spot, slickly, and climbs back into his seat, first wiping a knuckle at the corners of his mouth then smoothing out his hair and tie and the creases in his shirt. Eventually, he looks as pristine and put together as he was when they’d first arrived, which is far more than what Makoto can say about himself. 

Even without a mirror he knows just how disheveled and flushed he must look. But he manages, with sluggish, boneless movements, to fix himself just enough to avoid rousing the waiter's suspicions about his well-being.

Just in time for the main course.

 

\--

 

As expected, the food is delicious and maybe worth its price, though Makoto barely gets halfway through his entree when he abruptly drops his fork onto his plate and stands.

Rin, who's barely made a dent in his own meal, glances up, eyebrow quirked with concern. 

“I'm going to the men's room,” Makoto declares, “and in five minutes, you're going to get up and meet me there.”

“For what?” Rin tries to look as confused as he sounds but the smirk quirking his lip gives him away.

“Dessert,” and that's all Makoto says before he wanders off to the restroom.

Rin joins him in less than than three.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Amuse-bouche:** Similar to but not to be confused with hors d'oeuvre. This is a tidbit, often tiny, served as a free extra to keep you happy while you are waiting for your first course to come. It gives you an idea of the chef's approach to cooking and the restaurant's attention to your appetite. They are different from appetizers in that they are not ordered from a menu by patrons, but, when served, are done so free and according to the chef's selection alone. The term is French, literally translated as "mouth amuser". Ahahaha.
> 
> *ahem*


End file.
